


No Better Friend

by Luke1813



Series: Hell Hath Frozen Over Series [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29439282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke1813/pseuds/Luke1813
Summary: It’s Geralt’s 100th birthday, but, not surprisingly, he never told anyone. So, he spends the day alone - sometimes in deep introspection. The day doesn’t go as planned.Warnings: While it’s not absolutely necessary, I highly recommend reading ‘Hell Hath Frozen Over’ prior to reading this one-shot.  I think doing so will make this story much more meaningful.  This tale contains spoilers to the games. Not 100% canon-compliant.
Series: Hell Hath Frozen Over Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167950
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	No Better Friend

Vivienne died on a Tuesday - on a typical, sunny, autumn Toussaint morning. It hadn’t seemed right to Geralt at the time, and it still didn’t. Mothers all across the duchy had awoken that dawn and prepared meals for their families. Fathers had gone to work. Children had laughed and played. The world simply shouldn’t have been so normal – and beautiful - on the day that his life had fallen apart. 

“A Tuesday,” he said to himself after a short sigh, and then he finished spooning some chopped-up chicken meat into a small bowl. 

He had no idea why he’d suddenly remembered the day of the week that she’d died. For it was such a meaningless detail. What did it even matter that it was a Tuesday? The mind was so amazingly strange – how it could recall buried memories and make random connections in the blink of an eye. One second, he was scooping food into a bowl for Jokko, and in the next instant, he was thinking of the day that his wife had died. Of course, he knew it wasn’t truly that strange. Because, even now, almost a year later, she was always on his mind. Everything made him think of her.

Geralt finished his preparations, left the kitchen, and walked toward the front door of his home, and as soon as he stepped outside, he cursed under his breath. Neither the moon nor stars could be seen. A thick blanket of clouds covered the early morning sky and portended a rare Toussaint storm.

“Swell,” he mumbled to himself.

He had plans on traveling into Beauclair that morning, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught in a downpour. But such was life. He knew that he could delay his trip to avoid the storms, but he’d already made arrangements with several customers in the region – assuring them that he’d deliver the wine today – and he was loath to ever break his word.

With a sigh, he moved over to the front porch of his house and knelt down, rattling the bowl around on the wooden floorboards to make some noise. It’s what he’d done virtually every morning for the past several years. It was his signal for Jokko – the vineyard’s cat – to come get his breakfast. 

Like every other feline that Geralt had ever come across, Jokko had been very leery with Geralt – at least, initially. Cats were just naturally suspicious of witchers – always hissing and arching their backs when the mutated humans were nearby. But Geralt, over the course of several months and with the aid of food, had eventually worn down the cat’s defenses. So much so that, in the evenings, when Geralt would sit on his front porch, smoking his pipe as he gazed out over his estate, many times Jokko would hop onto the bench and curl up next to him. 

Geralt furrowed his brow when a minute had passed without the feline’s arrival. For Jokko never missed his morning meal. He suspected that it might have been the only time the cat ever ate. Geralt didn’t know how old Jokko was, but he knew he was nearing his end. In fact, he doubted that the scarred-up old tomcat even had the necessary quickness and reflexes to catch prey on his own anymore.

“Hey, Jokko,” he called out. “Where you at, little guy?”

When another minute went by with no sign of the cat, his confusion turned to dread. He immediately stood and began his search. After looking around the perimeter of his house, he went down to the stables, but Jokko couldn’t be found. Suddenly, Geralt paused his search and swallowed hard as a thought crossed his mind. Instantly, he turned and headed toward the northern side of the estate. 

Past the arboretum and a large garden was a clearing that sat atop a small hill. From that elevated point was an incredible of view of the vineyard and the Sansretour Valley below. It had been Vivienne’s favorite spot on the entire estate. Geralt had lost count of the number of days that she’d taken her easel and a stool up there to paint under the majestic glow of the Toussaint sun. And most days, Jokko would accompany her, for the two of them had become the best of friends. The first time that Geralt had seen the cat – asleep and purring in her lap - he’d smiled. 

“I don’t blame you,” he’d said, and then he’d peered into his wife’s eyes. “There’s no place that I’d rather be either.”

She smiled and pointed her finger at him.

“Come here,” she ordered as she crooked her finger.

He bent down and brought his face forward until their noses were almost touching.

“Now, tell me - where _exactly_ do you want to be?” she whispered.

“Close to you…always.”

“Oh, I thought you meant…in my lap.”

Geralt’s smile widened.

“Well, that, too.”

“That can be arranged,” she said, and then she reached up to caress his cheek as they kissed deeply. 

Jokko hadn’t moved an inch through it all.

Geralt loved that memory. At that point, their marriage was still young, and their desire for each other had been insatiable. He could still picture her sitting there – biting her lower lip, a flirtatious glint in her eye, her golden hair shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, and with a slight smudge of paint on her cheek. To his eyes, she was so beautiful that it hurt.

When Vivienne had died last fall, he had chosen the clearing as her burial site, and in the months that followed, he figured that he must have spent hundreds of hours there, kneeling in quiet contemplation – particularly at night, when he couldn’t sleep. And more times than not, Jokko would show up as well. It was as if the little cat was grieving, too.

Geralt thought about all of that as he made his way toward the clearing, and then he suddenly halted in his tracks as he approached his wife’s headstone. 

“Ahh, no,” he whispered to himself. “Damn it, Jokko.”

On top of Vivienne’s grave, Jokko lay on his side – completely still. 

Geralt didn’t immediately move. He just stood there, staring down at the little cat. Eventually, he swallowed hard, knelt down, and placed his hand on Jokko’s side. The cat made no sound, and Geralt could feel no heartbeat, though he could still sense the slightest bit of warmth. Jokko obviously hadn’t been dead long. Geralt left his hand where it was, letting it rest in Jokko’s soft fur. He petted him tenderly for a few moments, and then he closed his eyes. His chin fell to his chest as the silence surrounded him.

Perhaps a minute passed, with memories of Jokko – and Vivienne – running through his mind. He didn’t move as the grief washed over him. Pain that reminded him of how he’d felt in the fall. It was almost as if Vivienne had suddenly died again. One more connection to her that was now broken. Eventually, though, in time, he opened his eyes.

“You were a good friend, Jokko,” he said, breaking the silence. He gave a slight nod of his head before exhaling long and slow. “A good friend.”

A few minutes later, Geralt returned with a shovel and one of Vivienne’s simple sundresses. He still hadn’t given away any of her belongings, and this particular dress was one of her favorites. He could remember her wearing it countless times while painting atop the hill. After digging a hole a few paces away from Vivienne’s grave, he tenderly picked up Jokko and wrapped his small body in the dress, using the colorful garment as a shroud. He gently placed Jokko in the ground and then slowly shoveled the dirt back into place.

When he was done, he stood in silence for a while before saying, “I hope there’s a heaven, Jokko. And I hope you’re there.” He then glanced at Vivienne’s headstone. “I hope you’re both there.”

He bowed his head as he held the shovel upright in front of him, the tip of the spade piercing the ground between his feet. After a moment, he looked up and peered intently at his love’s headstone. Under her name were the words, “Beloved Wife and Friend.”

“I don’t regret it,” he said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. “Not one bit. I’d do it all again. You and your love were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He swallowed hard and then lifted his eyes to the heavens.

“So, I still can’t let you go. And I don’t even want to…I don’t want to.”

He closed his eyes, hoping for some kind of response. Some kind of answer. A ray of morning sunlight breaking through the clouds. A slight gust of wind caressing his skin. The chirping of a nearby bird in the trees. Something…anything. But there was nothing. Just stillness and silence. So, eventually, he opened his eyes and glanced down at the small mound of dirt at his feet. Finally, he gave a short nod of his head and then turned and walked away.

oOo

Geralt cursed to himself before muttering, “Happy bloody birthday.”

It hadn’t been long into his journey that the dark skies had finally opened up, and the rain had fallen in sheets for at least an hour. After seeing the clouds that morning, he’d grabbed his cloak before departing, but the garment was so threadbare that it had given him virtually no protection against the downpour. Both it and his clothes underneath were now soaked through. But he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn the cloak - for it hardly ever rained in Toussaint – but he’d owned it for decades. It was, obviously, way past time to be replaced.

“It’s seen better days,” he grumbled. “Just like you.”

Even though the heavy rain had stopped, a slight drizzle was still falling from the slate-gray sky. He sighed and flicked the reins toward Roach and Snickers, who was Vivienne’s former mount. The three of them were trudging along the main – and now muddy - road south to Beauclair, pulling a wagon loaded down with several barrels of Sepremento. He’d already dropped off one barrel at the Cockatrice Inn, and now he was heading to the capital city to deliver the rest to a handful of restaurants.

The former witcher – now vineyard owner – was in a lousy mood, but not just because of Jokko’s death or the foul weather. He knew that he’d been a bit grumpy for the past week or so. For today was his one-hundredth birthday. Of course, Geralt being Geralt, he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. He’d never liked being the center of attention.

“A century old,” he said to himself as he shook his head.

He couldn’t believe it. He was never supposed to have lived that long, for ‘ _No witcher ever died in his bed._ ’ Yes, he realized that the saying was a cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason - because they were typically based on truth. At least a kernel of it. Of course, few clichés ever revealed the full truth, and this one was no exception. For the fact of the matter was that witchers didn’t just die alone in desolate bogs, dark caves, and haunted crypts. They also died young. Geralt knew that nine out of ten witchers probably never saw their twentieth birthday. And he’d known those facts so well that he had, early on the Path, resigned himself to a short life. It was one of many reasons that he’d never settled down. What was the point when he was probably going to die the next week anyway? But one year had passed after another, and then decades began to stack atop decades until here he was. 

“If I’d known I was going to actually live this long…” he began, but then he paused when he realized that he wasn’t sure if what he’d been about to say next was actually true. He’d intended to say that he’d have done a lot of things differently. But would he really? And, hell, did it even matter? Geralt had always done his best not to live in the past because he knew it was not only pointless but also incredibly unhealthy. He realized a little bit of introspection could be a good thing – because he could then evaluate his flaws and mistakes in order to avoid the same ones in the future. But to wallow in regrets? Well, that was a pathway to disaster. He could never move forward on the Path if he was always looking behind. So, over the course of his life, he’d done his best to avoid such nonsense. However, birthdays that ended in zeros always seemed to bring about introspection, whether he wanted it or not. And a birthday that ended in two zeros? Well, he knew he might as well not even bother to fight it. The truth was that he’d been doing a lot of looking back in the past week.

“Might as well get it over with,” he whispered to himself as he again flicked the reins.

While the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels squished through the muddy lane and the drizzle continued to fall, Geralt let his thoughts wander. This went on for a while - him just sitting with his eyes forward but not really seeing anything. Eventually, though, he blinked several times as he came to himself, and he scowled because he didn’t particularly like the conclusion his thoughts had led him to.

“You’re cursed,” he growled out.

For the longest time – while on the Path - he’d considered being a witcher a curse because, among many other things, it meant that he would die young. But with the death of his wife in the fall and, now, Jokko’s death that morning, he realized the Trials and mutations had actually cursed him in a different way. Now that he was no longer a practicing monster-hunter, more than likely – unless some accident occurred – he was going to outlive just about everyone that he knew. If his mentor, Vesemir, was any indication, then it was even possible that he could live another one or two centuries. Which meant that he was going to have to watch almost everyone that he’d ever cared about die – Ciri; Barnabas-Basil, Phillipe, Marie, and all his other employees at Corvo Bianco that he’d developed relationships with over the past few years; Dandelion and Priscilla; hell, he’d probably even outlive Theo, their young son. And all of those were just a few of the people that he held dear. And that thought put him in a darker mood – making him wonder just what exactly was the point of it all.

_“Have I really even made a difference in this world?”_ he pondered. 

“Yeah, I’ve helped a few people along the way,” he said out loud. “But so what? They all end up dead anyway. So, what’s the point?” 

Before he could answer his own question, he noticed a small estate coming up on his left. It was an orphanage that consisted of about a half-acre of land. A six-foot tall, stone wall surrounded the estate, and in the middle was a large, two-story building.

Geralt steered Roach and Snickers in that direction and then pulled the wagon to a stop just outside a high, arched entryway. After disembarking, he moved to the tail-end of the wagon and lowered the back gate. Along with several barrels of wine, there was an incredibly large wicker basket that was tightly covered with a cloth. He heaved the basket onto his shoulder and then made his way up some steps to the front door of the building. Typically, there were always ten to twelve children outside completing a variety of chores, but, apparently, the foul weather had driven them indoors. Either that, or it was time for their studies.

Several years back, the orphanage had lost its patroness – a circumstance in which the witcher had played a significant role. Without a sponsor, the orphanage had been on the verge of closing down until Geralt had decided to step in. He’d used some of the money from the ‘Beast of Beauclair’ contract to keep the orphanage afloat until he – with Barnabas-Basil’s help - could find some wealthy donors within the duchy who’d agreed to support the cause. To this day, a portion of Corvo Bianco’s profits went to paying the salaries of the husband-and-wife team who acted as the orphanage’s overseers.

As Geralt approached the front door, his eyes instinctively lifted to the sign above it. It read, “Great Hope Orphanage,” in bright yellow letters. The sign’s background was a beautiful glade filled with a variety of flowers, colorful butterflies, chirping orioles, and a small pond to one side filled with crystal-blue water. It immediately brought his wife to the forefront of his mind. For one, because she had been the one who’d painted it. And secondly, because the glade on the sign was a special place for the two lovers. A location that had played an important role in their relationship.

After coming into Geralt’s life, Vivienne had soon discovered his involvement in the orphanage, and at that point, she too had taken a personal interest. Due to her curse – and the possibility that she might have just a few years to live - she’d decided that motherhood was not in the cards for her, but she’d always had a heart for children, and so she had spent two or three days there each week giving art lessons, reading stories to the younger kids, teaching embroidery, and anything else that was requested of her. 

One night at dinner, early on in their relationship, she’d asked Geralt, “Does the orphanage have a name?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

A serious look came to her face and she said, “I think it needs a name.”

Geralt smiled warmly at her. “Okay. What do you got in mind?”

She stared intently into his eyes and then reached over and caressed his hand.

“Hope,” she answered with a smile of her own. “I think ‘Great Hope’ sounds good.”

Geralt exhaled forcefully as he came out of that memory and then banged on the front door of the orphanage. A moment later, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a round face and a lot of smile-induced wrinkles around her eyes.

“Hello, Geralt,” greeted Simone. “You look like a drowned rat. What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Was just in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop this off,” he said, nodding his head toward the large basket still resting atop his shoulder.

Once every couple of weeks, he’d bring a basketful of fruits, vegetables, and eggs for the kids.

“Right,” she said with a small laugh. “Well, come in. The children will be pleased to see you.”

She then stepped back to allow him entry.

“Best not,” responded Geralt. “My boots are filthy. Besides, I’ve really got to move on. People are waiting on me.”

“Not a problem. I understand.”

“Maybe I can stop by this evening, on my way back?”

Simone gave him a strange smile – one that reached her eyes.

“Okay. We’ll see you later.”

Geralt placed the basket full of food on the other side of the threshold, bid her farewell, and promptly headed back to the wagon. With muddy roads and a wagon weighed down by a heavy load, he figured he still had at least three more hours before he arrived in Beauclair.

After climbing onto the wagon’s seat, he prodded Roach and Snickers back onto the main road, and his mind again began to wander. Being at the orphanage reminded him of the last time that he’d seen all of the kids together in one place. Usually when he visited, there would always be a couple of them missing – either fishing down on the Sansretour River, helping Kurt in one of the back gardens, or just playing in the nearby forest like kids were wont to do. But all of them had come to Vivienne’s funeral. They’d all loved her so much.

Gratefully, his wife’s death had not been slow and drawn-out. She hadn’t suffered at all. In fact, the day before she died, she looked to be the epitome of good health. She simply hadn’t woken up that next morning. And because her death had been so unexpected, very few of Geralt’s friends had been able to attend her funeral. He didn’t know of any magic-users in the duchy who could open portals or possessed megascopes, and it would have taken a rider a couple of weeks or more to get a message to his friends in Novigrad or Nilfgaard. Therefore, the only people to pay their respects had been those who were local. But, honestly, Geralt had been fine with that fact. For the truth was that he hadn’t been in any shape to entertain visitors at the time. He’d barely been able to even function for the first couple of weeks after her death. The anguish had been so overwhelming that, at times, it was nearly impossible to even form coherent thoughts. The one thing he had done, though, was to ride hard that day all the way to southern tip of the duchy to inform Vivienne’s parents of her passing. He’d known that they needed to get that kind of news only from him – and only in person. Fortunately, B.B. had, as usual, stepped up and taken care of a lot of the other details.

Geralt made it to Beauclair around noon and then spent the next couple of hours making deliveries to his customers – the Adder & Jewels Winery; the Pheasantry; and Franzetti’s, a relatively new restaurant located on the Gran’ Place. He dropped off another barrel at the Clever Clogs Inn, and when he walked out the front door, he looked up to see that the rain was coming down hard again. But, at that point, he didn’t really care anymore. He couldn’t get any wetter than he already was. Besides, the gloomy weather fit his mood. 

He left the city out of the southern Metinna Gate and led his wagon down the muddy road to Francollarts – a quaint village on the outskirts of the Caroberta Woods. He only had one more delivery to fulfill at the Scarlet Cardinal Inn, and then he could make the long trek back home. He was about an hour from his destination when he, suddenly, heard a monstrous squeal coming from his right, and an instant later, an enormous boar rushed out of the forest’s thick undergrowth - making a bee-line straight for Roach and Snickers. The beast was an absolute monster, weighing close to three-hundred pounds and sporting massive tusks. 

Roach and Snickers immediately shrieked in terror and fled as fast as they could in the opposite direction while, at the same time, Geralt’s witcher-instincts instantly took control. Hoping to save the horses, he leapt from the wagon’s seat, casting a Quen Sign with one hand while pulling his knife from the scabbard on his belt with the other. He landed right on top of the beast’s back, plunging his blade into its side. And though the swine immediately lost its footing and tumbled head-first into the muddy road, it was far from dead. It was struggling to get to its feet, but Geralt had a death-grip around its neck and was repeatedly stabbing it in the torso. As the boar screamed out in pain, the two of them thrashed about in the mud when, suddenly, the beast somehow managed to stand. It ran, kicked, and bucked, trying to get free of its attacker, but Geralt was hanging on tight and doing his best to twist his knife deeper and deeper into its flesh. But that only seemed to make the swine angrier. It proceeded to drag Geralt into the woods – their bodies crashing over rocks and into trees – until, a moment later, it finally fell to the forest floor. Geralt stabbed the beast a few more times, but, by then, it gave no response. So, he quickly stood and took a few steps back to assess the situation. The animal wasn’t quite dead, but it was bleeding profusely from its numerous wounds and struggling to breathe.

“What the hell?” said Geralt between deep, gasping breaths. “We were minding our own damn business…you dumb son of a bitch. What’s wrong with you?”

But his anger quickly disappeared when he looked into the animal’s eyes. He knew that he was probably just imagining it, but he would have sworn that he could see them filled with fear. So, he instantly knelt back down and drove his blade into the boar’s heart – putting the beast out of its misery. 

As Geralt stood back up, he glanced down at himself. He was covered head-to-toe in mud, and he was also missing his threadbare cloak. It must have been torn from his back somewhere along the way. As the adrenaline began to dissipate, he became acutely aware of the pain radiating throughout his body. He put his hand to his side and winced. He didn’t think any ribs were broken, but he would definitely be bruised. It was then that he felt a burning sensation near his hairline. He placed his fingers there, and when he brought his hand back down, his fingertips were covered in blood.

“Swell,” he said after a long sigh. “Could this day get any worse?”

A couple of minutes later, he found his cloak in the woods. It was in tatters and absolutely ruined, but he picked it up anyway because he wasn’t just going to leave it there. He figured he could find some use for it in the future – as a rag, if nothing else. And then he nodded his head at the idea. He found the cleanest section of the cloak, tore a piece off, and pressed it to the bleeding wound on his forehead.

When Geralt got back to the main road, the horses and his wagon were nowhere to be seen so he immediately followed the tracks into the woods. It wasn’t long until he found them, down in a shallow gully.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he growled out.

Roach and Snickers appeared to be fine, but the wagon was tilted to one side, and one of its wheels was broken, lying on the ground next to it. As he approached the wreck, he noticed that the last barrel of wine was no longer in the back. He slid down the side of the gully, and when he came to the opposite side of the wagon, he saw the barrel tipped over next to a large rock. It was cracked open with its contents spilling out onto the forest floor.

Geralt clenched his jaws at the sight and, as he exhaled slowly, he just shook his head in disgust.

“Happy bloody birthday.”

oOo

“By the gods, man, what happened to you?” asked Palmerin de Launfal.

Geralt had just walked into the Scarlet Cardinal Inn, covered in mud and dried blood. The knight stood up from the table where he’d been sitting and approached his friend near the door. Their friendship went back several years and included countless games of Gwent.

Geralt gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Attacked by a boar.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. But my wagon’s busted up. And I lost a barrel of Sepremento.”

Palmerin looked Geralt up and down one more time and then made eye-contact.

“Well…besides that, how’s your day been?”

The two men stared at each other for a moment before they both smirked at the same time. But then the smirk fell from Geralt’s face as he remembered burying Jokko next to Vivienne’s grave that morning.

“I’ve had better,” he finally said. 

“Then, let me buy you a drink.”

The two men headed to the bar, and Geralt ordered a vodka from Scarlett, the owner. He explained the situation and assured her that he’d return on the morrow with her barrel of wine. 

“No worries, Geralt,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks for understanding, Scarlett,” he responded, and then he turned to Palmerin. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Looking for you.”

“Really? How did you even know I was here?”

“Barnabas-Basil. He informed me that you were making deliveries today. Said you’d be coming here.”

“And you tracked me down on a day like this? Must be important.”

Palmerin nodded his head and placed a small scroll on the bar top.

“A summons from our Illustrious Highness.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at that because he had no idea what the duchess might want from him. 

_‘I’m not a witcher anymore,’_ he thought to himself.

He cracked the seal and unfurled the scroll, and a few moments later, he furrowed his brow as he rolled the parchment back up.

“It doesn’t say what she wants. You have any idea?”

“I don’t. She doesn’t always deign to tell me her desires. Many times, I’m just the errand boy and nothing else.”

Geralt nodded and then slammed back the last of his vodka.

“Well, let’s hit the road then. It wouldn’t do to keep a duchess waiting.”

“Wise words.”

The two men quickly left the inn and mounted their horses. Geralt did his best to ride Roach bareback while Snickers trailed behind them, and the friends made small talk along the way.

“I heard Guillaume got married,” said Geralt at one point.

“You heard correctly.”

“I guess my invitation to the wedding must have gotten lost somewhere along the way.”

Palmerin laughed out loud.

“Yes, that must have been what happened.”

Geralt smiled at that.

“You telling me your nephew is still angry with me after all this time?”

“Well, you did marry the love of his life.”

“It wasn’t love” answered Geralt. “He didn’t even know her.”

“I know that. And you know that. But he was just a teenager then. It’s easy to confuse love with infatuation – especially when you’ve never experienced the real thing.”

Thinking of his wife made Geralt’s smile disappear.

“Yeah, well, I guess I can’t blame him too much. Vivienne was…well, she was pretty damn lovable.”

“Indeed, she was,” agreed Palmerin. “I miss her dearly, my friend.”

Geralt didn’t say anything to that. He just looked into Palmerin’s eyes and gave a small nod.

At that point, the two friends rode is silence for a bit until the knight cleared his throat and said in a cheerful voice, “So, let me tell you about this Gwent hand I had in a tournament last month.”

And for the rest of the ride back to Beauclair, the two talked of less weighty matters. By the time they arrived at the ducal palace, the late afternoon sun had chased away the clouds. It looked as if it might turn into a beautiful evening. 

As they walked along the polished, marble floors of the palace halls, Geralt asked, “Shouldn’t I bathe and change clothes first? The duchess might have my head for appearing in front of her looking like this.”

Palmerin chuckled.

“You’re fine. She stated that she wanted you brought here immediately. With no delays.”

“If you say so.”

When the two of them walked past the doors of the throne room, Geralt furrowed his brow because that was normally where the duchess held an audience, but he didn’t bother to say anything. A moment later, Palmerin opened two, massive oak doors and led Geralt into an enormous – but empty – banquet hall. There was a large, square dance-floor in the middle of the room, and it was surrounded by countless tables and chairs. The hall was brightly lit by both lamps on the tables and chandeliers hanging high above. On the far side of the room was an elevated stage with thick, closed curtains. The knight moved to the middle of the dance floor where there was a single chair, facing the stage. 

“Sit here, please,” said Palmerin, motioning to the chair. “The Duchess will be with you shortly.”

And without saying another word, he turned and walked through a door to the right of the stage, leaving Geralt all alone. He didn’t bother to sit. He just looked around the banquet hall, wondering what the hell was going on. He noticed the tables were all covered with pristine, white cloths, and that the lamps on each table were encircled by a colorful, floral arrangement. There were several giant paintings on the walls that were, obviously, the works of master artists, and all of the balcony doors were open, allowing the last rays of the day’s sun to creep into the room. 

While Geralt had been inside the palace on several occasions, he didn’t think that he’d ever been inside this particular banquet hall. He could admit that it was beautiful, and he immediately thought of Vivienne. In spite of her upbringing and contrary to her appearance, she had actually been very down to earth and quite happy with the simple pleasures of life. She had to be in order to be content living with someone like Geralt. That said, he knew that she would have loved spending an evening in a banquet hall like this. And, instantly, his mind took him back almost a year – to one of their last nights together. They were standing in their bedroom at Corvo Bianco, getting ready to attend an elegant ball at Dun Tynne castle.

_“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” asked Vivienne._

_“This morning,” Geralt answered with a smile. “But you can tell me again.”_

_“Well, I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” she said before kissing him lightly on the lips._

_“Not that I’m complaining, but you’ve been telling me that a lot lately. Even more than usual. Any particular reason?”_

_She smoothed her hands down the fancy, black doublet that he was wearing._

_“Because you deserve to hear it.”_

_“Do I?” he asked seriously._

_Because he wasn’t sure he deserved her love at all. In fact, he still wondered how he’d gotten so lucky._

_“Yes, you are the most selfless man I’ve ever met. I know you hate wearing this garb and taking me dancing, but you do it anyway.” She then reached up and gently traced the scar on his face with her fingertip. “I’ve never met any man who has sacrificed so much for so many.”_

_Geralt smiled at his wife and grabbed her hand in his, bringing it down to his chest._

_“It’s not a sacrifice at all.”_

_“No?”_

_“My greatest joy in life is making you smile so…a doublet and dancing? That’s nothing, wife. That’s no real sacrifice at all.”_

_Tears suddenly welled up in Vivienne’s eyes. She shook her head._

_“No one would ever believe it.”_

_“Believe what?”_

_“That underneath your gruff and scarred exterior is the most gentle of souls.” She stared deep into his eyes. “And I can’t believe how blessed I am. You’re not just my husband and lover. You’re my best friend. And I love you with all my heart.”_

_And then she kissed him again._

Geralt stood there in the middle of the banquet hall with his eyes closed, focusing all of his thoughts on trying to remember her scent and the feel of her lips when he suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned to face the stage, and when he saw the person coming through the curtains, his jaw almost dropped.

“Dandelion? What the…what the hell are you doing here?”

His best friend was standing in the center of the stage, dressed in one of his typical, garish outfits and holding his lute.

“Greetings, Geralt,” said the bard with a huge smile on his face. “We are here in your honor.”

“We?” said Geralt, furrowing his brow.

Dandelion nodded, and at the point, the curtains began to open. Geralt was speechless at what he saw. Ciri, Regis, Yennefer, and Zoltan were standing behind the bard. To one side of them was Eskel and Lambert…Keira and Triss…Ermion, Cerys, and Hjalmar. Anna Henrietta, Damien, and Palmerin were joined by Kurt and Simone and all the kids from the orphanage. There was B.B., all the other employees and families from Corvo Bianco, Vivienne’s parents, and dozens more. The entire stage was filled.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Geralt!” came a child’s voice from the stage, and Geralt’s eyes immediately found young Theo standing next to Priscilla. The little boy was holding his mother’s hand, and when he saw Geralt looking at him, he smiled widely and waved back and forth several times. Geralt smiled back and raised his hand in return.

“There was no way we were going to let your hundredth birthday pass without a celebration,” said Dandelion.

“But…but how?” asked Geralt, shaking his head. “How did you…I didn’t tell anyone.”

Suddenly, the bard’s bright smile changed into a sad one.

“It was Vivienne’s idea.”

“What?”

Dandelion nodded.

“She wrote me a letter about a year ago. Telling me her plans and asking for my help. When she…when she died…I knew we had to see it through.”

Suddenly, Geralt’s heart was in his throat. He clenched his jaws and brought his hand to his mouth to compose himself. His eyes left Dandelion and landed on Vivienne’s father and mother. Bastien smiled and nodded at Geralt while Amelie also smiled and wiped a tear from her face.

“So, we’re all here tonight to have a grand celebration – with the best of food, drink, and music,” continued the bard. “But mainly…mainly we’re here to let you know just how much you mean to us. So, have a seat…because we’re going to begin this party with a song that Vivienne and I wrote together. About you.”

Geralt simply did as he was told, and a moment later, Dandelion strummed on his lute and began to sing:

_“He was forged through the Trials, a witcher disdained_

_Made to fight the darkness and walk a Path of pain_

_No stranger to sorrow and haunted by the grave_

_Hated and scorned by those he came to save_

_Stronger than steel, he won’t bend_

_The helpless he’ll always defend_

_And in my darkest days, he saved my life again and again_

_There’s no better friend_

_There’s ‘White Wolf’ and ‘Gwynbleidd’ but most call him ‘freak’_

_And when they shout out ‘Butcher,’ he turns the other cheek._

_Viewed as a monster and blamed for others’ sins_

_I wish the world could know the man who’s my friend_

_Stronger than steel, he won’t bend_

_The helpless he’ll always defend_

_And in my darkest days, he saved my life again and again_

_There’s no better friend_

_Well, on the outside, he’s scarred and he’s cold_

_But don’t let it fool you, he’s got a heart of gold_

_And he hates the word ‘hero,’ but that’s what he’s been_

_Caring and faithful right to the end…right to the end!”_

And then everyone on stage joined in with Dandelion to sing the final chorus, their voices reverberating throughout the banquet hall.

_“Stronger than steel, you won’t bend_

_The helpless you’ll always defend_

_And in our darkest days, you saved our life again and again_

_There’s no better friend.”_

Even after the last note had finished echoing off the walls, Geralt couldn’t say anything. He simply stood and made eye contact with every person on the stage, slightly nodding the entire time.

“We love you, Geralt,” said Ciri, and that’s when he almost lost it.

He brought his hand back up to his mouth, trying his best to keep it all in. For the outpouring of affection coming from his friends was about to overwhelm him. His bruised and battered soul simply couldn’t handle it. And in that moment, his mind flashed back over all the events of the day, and instantly his thoughts focused on the words he’d spoken to Vivienne that morning while standing at the foot of her grave. That it was worth it. That love was worth the pain. His eyes again scanned everyone standing on the stage, and he knew that, even though he’d probably outlive almost all of them, knowing their kindness, friendship, and love was worth going through the grief he’d feel when they died.

“Love is worth it,” he whispered to himself, his voice breaking.

Dandelion jumped off the stage and approached his best friend. Geralt eventually dropped his hand, exhaled long and slow to collect himself, and then smiled.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what exactly?” asked Dandelion, a quizzical smile on his face.

“That you actually wrote a song where you didn’t make yourself the focus.”

The bard chuckled.

“Well, like I said, a lot of the lyrics were Vivienne’s. Besides, I think that I finally might be getting humble in your old age.”

Geralt laughed at that, and then his faced turned serious.

“Thank you, Dandelion. I mean it. I was having a really bad day. Hell, a really bad year. So, this was just what I needed. So, thank you.”

“No, Geralt,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you. I owe you my family…and I owe you my life, multiple times over. There really is no better friend.”

And, then, for the first time in their lives, the two friends hugged.

After a moment, they broke their embrace, and Dandelion turned to the stage.

“Now, let’s get this man a change of clothes!”

At that point, everyone came down to the dance floor. Food and wine soon flooded the banquet hall along with music from a band on the stage.

And to his dying day, Geralt would never forget that night. The night that he was surrounded by the love of his friends.

oOo

Author’s Note:

If you’d like to hear me attempt to sing Dandelion’s song, ‘No Better Friend,’ then you can check out my YouTube channel – Luke1813. 


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